


I Feel As If I Might Be Vanishing

by NacreousGore



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bathtubs, Bed-Wetting, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Stiles Stilinski, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:54:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27719840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NacreousGore/pseuds/NacreousGore
Summary: When Lydia asks Stiles to stay overnight after a run-in with danger, she's left facing the aftermath of his nightmares.
Relationships: Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 3
Kudos: 51





	I Feel As If I Might Be Vanishing

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from the Caretaker track of the same name.

The hunt had ended with the wet thud of the monster’s body against the pavement, punctuated by Scott’s voice, impossibly loud, commanding that she and Stiles _GET OUT OF HERE_ before the others caught scent of the pack. 

Just after the fall, Lydia was hyperaware of the bitterness of the thought that it hadn’t even been the rabid werewolf that had hurt her. Just one misplaced step off the curb that had her tumbling, twisting her ankle to an ungodly degree and scraping her knees against the concrete. 

Her part in the evening dragged out to a close with Stiles supporting her weight across the parking lot, easing her into the passenger side of his Jeep while she spat out a string of curses through gritted teeth. 

“I’m fine,” Lydia had said hurriedly when Stiles suggested the hospital - she had hissed it, really. It wasn’t broken - might not have been badly sprained at all, and with the shock and danger of the situation ebbing further off, all Lydia wanted was a hot bath and to sleep for ten hours. 

The drive was thick with silence, Lydia’s face pressed to the window, thoughts running wild with just how close the fangs had been to the pale line of her throat, how close tonight’s encounter had been to the countless others that had left her either running or screaming for her life, for the lives of her friends. 

Stiles had insisted on helping her to her door, waiting to make sure she gets in. And by the time her hands had stopped shaking from adrenaline long enough to slide her key into the lock it was her turn to insist that he come in, warm up and stay long enough to settle. 

An hour later, after Stiles had helped her limp upstairs and the setting sun was painting the walls of Lydia’s room in jewel tones, it seemed they were settled. At least as settled as they seemed capable of getting given the circumstances of their new lives, twisting and writhing through their days. 

“I should go,” Stiles is saying. He’s shifts his weight between his feet, like standing in the doorway to her room is making him physically uncomfortable. 

“Stay,” Lydia says, dropping the word onto the floor between them, the look in her eyes turning it into a question. 

“I - “ He starts and then cuts himself off, eyes moving in a fast dart around the bedroom. They refuse to settle on any one thing and Lydia chases his gaze, tripping over the shadows at the baseboards. 

“Are you sure?” Stiles asks. Lydia looks at him, looks past him into the mouth of the hallway behind him, stretching out through the dark and empty house and she’s sure.

“Please,” Lydia says simply. “I don’t want to be alone right now.” This seems to break through some of his resolve and he takes another step into her room. 

Lydia turns and shifts on the edge of her mattress, pulling her sweater off over her head and dropping it to the floor. What she wants is to be clean - a scalding hot shower, to wash the smell of soil and iron from her hair - but the dull ache in her body insists that she’s done with standing for the day. _In the morning,_ she concedes. When there’s sunlight and company, and from across the room she hears the tentative _click_ of Stiles shutting the door. 

Fatigue has begun claiming the places where rampant energy and suspense had taken over her body. More than anything else, what Lydia wants is to just lay down and close her eyes, feeling the rhythm of someone breathing in the dark beside her, though when she looks over at Stiles he’s settling in to the armchair in the corner of her room. 

“What are you doing?” She asks, feeling the distance between them, seeing the slight jump he makes at the sound of her voice. 

“I can just sleep here,” he says quickly, something about his tone feeling like a lie. 

“No, Stiles, please - ” Lydia says again, gesturing to the bed. The idea of the night wrapping around her on her own feels vast and looming, an additional darkness she doesn’t want to face. Stiles looks at her, his stare interrupted by a series of fast blinks. 

“I’m uh,” he starts, pauses again, swallows thickly. “I’m a really restless sleeper.” 

“I don’t mind,” Lydia says. “Just keep me company, okay?” There’s a gap of silence then as Stiles looks at her, at the empty space beside her on the mattress that she’s beckoning him towards, and Lydia thinks she might cry from frustration if he doesn’t join her soon. But then he’s making his way over, sitting down hesitantly on the edge of the bed.

“Are you sure?” He’s asking again, and again she’s saying that she is. 

“What’s wrong?” She says next, as if it’s something that can be easily asked, easily answered. 

“I’ve been having these nightmares…” Stiles trails off again, looking down at her sheets and twisting a corner around his finger. 

“I know,” Lydia says. “Me too.” Stiles looks at her, and Lydia can feel the weight of his gaze like a deep ache, wounded and profoundly tired. There’s something else in his eyes - a scanning look, like he’s searching her for an opening, and she tries to offer one. There’s a pause, a hesitation that expands through the room like a heavy cloud.

“I keep having these dreams where I wake up, except I don’t really wake up,” Stiles says next, and Lydia draws her lip between her teeth, nodding in understanding. 

“False awakenings,” she says, and Stiles looks away again, back down to where he’s threading the cotton sheet around his index finger, pulling the fabric tight around his circulation. 

“Sometimes I wake up and you’re there,” he says, and this time his voice is quieter, admitting and afraid, and Lydia drinks it in slowly. 

“Well,” Lydia says carefully, taking the corner of blanket from his hands to pull it open and over, and lays down beneath the sheets - “this time I will be.” 

———— ———— ———— ———— 

Lydia isn’t sure what it is that’s woken her at first. Far off street lights from down the road are filtering in palely, painting the walls a few shades lighter than complete darkness. Then the sound comes again; a high and threading whine from beside her. Stiles - she can’t make out more than his outline through the dark, so she shifts over towards the noise.

 _"No, no, no, don’t - "_ the moan cuts off into another dragging whine as he stirs, wracking weakly to one side then stiffening back again, like he’s trying to shake the hold of uneasy sleep off from his body, but failing and sinking back down into it. 

“Stiles,” Lydia says, hushed with concern, and reaches out, wrapping a hand around his forearm. His skin pressed beneath her hand is running hot with his jumping pulse, damp with sweat and he flinches in his sleep at her touch.

“It’s just a dream,” she whispers, soothing her hand along the firm line of his arm, feeling out the shape of him in the dark, unsure if she should wake him. 

She doesn’t have to. Stiles’ body jerks up and he’s gasping violently as he wakes, but the nightmare doesn’t seem to lift. Instead Lydia listens as the sound shifts into shallow, uneven panting, broken up with thin and straining breaks as if the struggle to catch his breath is slicing his airway with each sharp inhale. 

“Easy,” Lydia says, “just breathe.” Unwilling to listen to the sounds he’s making in so much darkness she sits up fully, reaching for the lamp at her bedside dresser and clicking it on. Gauzy yellow light blots into the room, and Lydia shields her eyes away from it, turning back to Stiles and pressing her hands to his shoulders. 

“Hey, you’re okay,” she says, blinking to find that the horror hasn’t left him - and judging from the expression that’s gripped onto his face, might still be growing. Tears are bleating out from the corners of his eyes, smearing down his cheeks in a blur, and the shine of sweat sits high on his temples, the tense arch of his neck. Lydia slides in closer and almost jumps at the feeling of his leg against hers - it’s shockingly hot, a weight to the fabric that doesn’t have time to register before he’s twisting from his side to his back, trying to sit up and staring out into the room with an expression of high-strung dread.

“It’s okay,” she tries again, watching the way her words aren’t reaching him, aren’t coming close. “It was just a nightmare.” Stiles’ eyes are rapt and wide with fear, sliding towards her bedroom door. Lydia can feel the tension from his muscles from being held so stiffly, quavering with a buzz that’s almost audible. She can feel something grip her then, like his terror is contagious, and Lydia catches herself from staring at the closed door too. 

“Nothing’s there, Stiles I promise,” Lydia says, and when she reaches for his hand he reaches back. His fingers are greasy with perspiration and she squeezes them tightly.

“No, no, not this,” Stiles breathes out. “Please just let me wake up,” and he’s shifting on the mattress like he’s unsure whether to move towards her or away. She makes the decision for him, edging closer and running a hand down the nape of his neck. His eyes shudder closed against the movement and she moves her fingers back up to smooth away the hair that’s falling into his face. It’s stringy with sweat. 

“Stiles, it’s okay, I’m really here,” Lydia says in a rush, her voice still chalked up from sleep. “You slept over, remember?” And as she watches, he seems to - something snapping back into place in his mind like a swift recognition. 

“Lydia?” He says, voice cracked and lurching and Lydia can feel something breaking apart inside of her at the sound of it. 

“Yeah,” she says, and her fingers pause at the damp edge of his hair, tracing down to his jaw, then his shoulder again. “It’s me,” she adds, and his hand in hers is still clamped tight, fierce like he’s afraid she’s going to disappear. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Lydia is asking next, and as soon as the question is posed Stiles’ eyes are flashing back to the bedroom door, then just as fast back to the blanket covering their bodies. 

“I don’t know,” he starts, breathing still not balanced out. “I was back in the water, something was trying to come in, and - ” he shifts like he’s trying to sit up and then freezes, the motion cutting off abruptly and Lydia can feel tension leap through his muscles. 

“No one’s going to come in,” she says, trying to reason with the strain of his body, but there’s something else in his eyes now, like a frantic calculation is taking place inside his mind. “Stiles?” 

“I - ” his voice breaks again as he’s pulling away from her, slipping his hand from hers to reach for the blankets and he’s dragging them off from their bodies in a shaking movement. Stiles’ eyes fall down between them to the mattress and Lydia mirrors him, catching the way his breath hitches up again, choking off his next word. 

The sheets are wet, spread out in a fanning oval from his waist, the lilac cotton stained wine-dark and his jeans soaked through on the side he had been lying on.

“Oh,” Lydia says, looking for something more useful to add and drawing a blank. 

_”Oh,_ fuck,” Stiles breathes out brokenly and the fracture of his voice snaps Lydia back into focus. 

“It’s fine,” she says quickly, reaching out to pull his hand back into hers, and shimmies backwards. Tucking a foot beneath her body, she lowers her other leg to the floor, gently tugging at Stiles’ hand to encourage him to follow her. 

“Come on,” she says softly.

“I’m so sorry,” Stiles says, moving incrementally over the mattress.

“It’s fine,” Lydia repeats, shaking the last claws of sleep out of her mind and pulling herself into action. “You can shower, I’ll change the sheets, it’s fine.” She’s standing now, her weight carefully balanced on her uninjured ankle, and Stiles shifts his legs onto the floor too, swaying uneasily as he stands. The shaking hasn’t left him, and Lydia tries to smooth it from his skin. 

“Come on,” she says again, ignoring the wet drag of fabric against her bare legs as she moves closer to pull him away from the bed. Tears are still spilling from his eyes, now tracking from the bed towards the door, and Lydia can see the shadows spreading against his mind. 

“Is this really happening?” He asks softly and Lydia doesn’t respond at first, feeling helpless as she tries to form an answer that would be convincing. 

“Yes,” she says gently, and doesn’t miss the way his fingers cling into her skin. 

“I don’t want to go out there,” Stiles says, even as he moves with her, one arm moving unconsciously to support her slight limp. 

“Trust me, okay?” Lydia says, reaching for the handle and feeling a crushing pain inside her chest as her hand drops his and his fingers chase to have it back. 

“Wait,” Stiles says desperately, and the fear in his voice is enough to have her hand jump away from the door, for a heartbeat just as afraid at what might be on the other side. 

“This isn’t right,” he says next, and Lydia has the door handle in her palm. 

“This doesn’t feel right, Lydia, _please,”_ Stiles whines, “I don’t - ”

“Just trust me,” Lydia repeats, and opens the door. 

The dark line of the hallway greets them impassively, and Stiles lets out a wracking shudder of breath from behind her. Lydia turns, pressing her forehead against the flushed heat of his cheek, and after a moment his hands move in an uncertain stutter to her waist. 

“See?” She says, and Stiles swallows. “Everything’s alright,” she breathes, and takes a step into the hall, feeling Stiles follow her tentatively. 

The bathroom light is blinding after the darkness of the hall, and Lydia steps into it, relieved even as her eyes burn with the vibrancy. She pulls a set of towels from the cupboard, setting one on the sink counter and tucking another under her arm while leading Stiles behind her. He moves with an uncomfortable stiffness, not letting go of her hand but still trying to keep a distance between their bodies. There’s a tremor to his that worries her more than his silence, and she gently pushes down on his shoulders, sitting him on the edge of the bathtub.

“You’ll feel better in a minute,” she says, hating the way it feels like a lie, and as she leans across the edge of the tub to level the shower on she’s wondering if either of them are ever going to feel alright. The water comes out in a hissing spray, already warming up against her hand. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says again. Lydia doesn’t know what else to say, so she doesn’t say anything at all, just dips her chin down to press a kiss to his temple, hand moving to cup his head, press it into her body, and when he reaches up to squeeze her wrist she can feel the gentle shake of silent crying. 

It’s a painful separation - extracting herself from the softness of his grip to leave the room. She hesitates at the doorway, glancing back to where he’s posed motionless on the edge of the bathtub. His shoulders are curved like his body is trying to shrink down, curl in on itself and disappear, and for a moment Lydia is gripped with the fear that when she leaves the room he _will_ vanish, consumed by the darkness spreading from his dreams into the air around them. 

“Do you - do you want me to shut it?” Lydia asks from the doorway. Across the room Stiles shakes his head hollowly, not looking at her. 

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll come back in a minute.” 

Walking back into the hall alone feels wrong, from more than just the dull ache spreading up through her leg from her ankle. 

Reentering her bedroom feels like intruding onto a set scene, poised and ready for a sordid call of action. The air is thick, clogged with interrupted sleep, faint ammonia, and the murky scent of sweat and fear. Fear at whatever it was that was trying so incessantly to break through the door in Stiles’ dream, and Lydia suddenly feels torn between throwing open the windows to let the air in, and crossing the room just to make sure they’re bolted shut. 

Peeling the sheets off her bed seems strangely invasive, like suddenly she’s not in her own room, her own house. The walls feel magnetic, different forces pushing into her. The empty socket of space where Stiles had been sleeping feels like it’s pulling at her too, like it’s trying to drag her under into whatever realm of nightmare she had brought him out of.

She tries to clear her mind, bringing her focus to a point and she strips the bed, tossing the untouched duvet and pillows to the floor and balling up the wet sheets. She places the extra towel onto the wet patch, flattening it down against the smooth topper of her mattress to absorb. Lydia notes that there’s no real damage done to the material underneath as she folds the towel over on itself, pressing down into it and inwardly thanking her own aversion to dust mites and blood stains that had demanded she buy the extra covering. 

By the time she’s headed back into the hall with the wet sheets her ankle is supporting her more willingly, stiffened up from sleep but not glaringly painful anymore. She gets to the bathroom doorway again, meaning to grab Stiles’ clothes and toss the lot of it into the washer and be done with it. 

When she reenters the bathroom the shower is running, steam beginning to billow out across the ceiling, but Stiles is sitting where she had left him, now with his head in his hands, muttering something in a shaking voice that she can’t quite make out. Dropping the sheets onto the linoleum, Lydia crosses back into the room, getting close enough to hear Stiles’ voice repeating _please just wake up, wake up…_

“You’re awake, Stiles,” Lydia says, flinching as he starts violently at the sound of her voice and in the moment she’s convinced he’s going to lose balance, crack his head open on the porcelain. He doesn’t though, just looks at her brokenly, and she’s right beside him a moment later.

“This is just a dream,” he says, and Lydia can’t decide whether he’s trying to convince himself it is or isn’t, can't tell which one would be worse.

“I promise you’re awake.” She’s close enough to touch him, and so she does, thumbing at the hem of his shirt. “Just get in the shower, okay?” She tugs at the fabric experimentally, and Stiles gives in to her movement, letting her lift it from his body, pulling him back to standing once it’s off. Again, Stiles stays frozen as if he’s unable to begin, and Lydia takes it as her cue, and coaxes him out of his jeans.

“Get in,” she commands gently once they’re off.

“Okay,” Stiles breathes and Lydia takes a step back, turning away tactfully as he pulls off the rest of his clothes. She waits until she hears the rustle of the shower curtain pulling closed before turning back around, collecting the wet clothes from the floor and heading back into the hall. 

There’s an eerie quality to loading the washer in the dead of night. Something about it just out of place enough that Lydia can’t seem to shake it, the task so mundane yet painted strange and almost threatening in the empty house, the corners filled with shadows. There’s a paranoid itch sticking to her skin, like the furniture has eyes, and it’s a relief to dial the cycle setting, and leave the laundry room to go back to her own. 

She lights a candle to set on her dresser before pulling a new set of sheets from her bottom drawer. Remaking the bed lifts some of that threatening feeling from the walls, and she fluffs the pillows against her headboard, restoring order within her own mind. Once her bed is straightened again, Lydia sits down on the edge of it. 

There’s a part of her that wants to give Stiles more time - more privacy. It feels logical, necessary, but another competing part is nagging at her to go back into the bathroom and not leave him alone. This part feels stronger, egging itself on with the image of his eyes cast out towards her bedroom door. The look of that bright and spiking fear is too fresh in her mind to reason with, and Lydia finds herself retracing her steps into the hall, chasing the light spilling out from the bathroom.

“Stiles?” Lydia calls softly, pausing at the still open door. There’s no answer. The shower keeps running, the walls now beaded with condensation, air thick with steam and mirrors fully fogged up. 

“Stiles, I’m coming in,” she says next, fighting a line of decisiveness back into her voice. She pads into the room, careful not to slip on the tiles now slick from the dripping steam. The shower curtain isn’t fully closed, like Stiles had been unwilling to shut himself in completely, and Lydia hesitates before pulling it open a little further, disproportionately worried she’ll be met with emptiness. Instead she finds him sitting tucked up on the floor, arms pulling his legs to his body, forehead resting on his knees. 

“Hi,” Lydia says, and slowly he tips his head up, pressing his chin into the top of one knee. 

“Hey,” he says back miserably, and Lydia has to fight off a misguided smile, stress and absurdity wriggling their way out from her mind. 

“How’re you feeling?” she asks, cringing at how useless it feels to say. Stiles shifts, grating his hands across his skull, his voice coming out muffled beneath the sound of the water. 

“Like I’m losing my mind.”

“Yeah,” Lydia agrees. “Yeah, me too.” There’s a pause then as she wrestles with more conflicting urges from her mind. One feels scripted, insisting that she show some discretion, turn her eyes away from his figure and act like nothing at all had happened. But the other part is urging her to kneel beside him, to reach out with both hands. Wants to ask _are you going to be okay?_ but the words don’t fit in her mouth and she notes dimly how entirely unsure she was of her own answer if he were to aim the same question back at her. She’s beside the bathtub now, keeping to one side so he has the choice to cut himself off from her line of vision. He doesn’t.

“I’m so sorry,” Stiles says next, and Lydia can sense the shame that’s running as hot as the water, coursing across his body just as freely.

“It’s okay,” she persists.

“No, it’s not. You don’t deserve this,” Stiles says, and a small and broken laugh chokes out of him. 

“Neither do you,” Lydia snaps back, firm and hushed. 

A weighted silence picks up then, and Lydia fills it with reaching into the shower and pushing down the stopper for the bathtub. Stiles shifts forward as she switches it from the spray to the faucet. He watches her wordlessly as she opens the cabinet beneath the sink, roots around for something and comes back to the tub with a bottle, uncaps it to thinly pour the mixture under the water spout. The smell of vanilla and honey ripples out into the room, a thick coating of foam building up as the tub fills. 

The silence folds around them both as Lydia takes her clothes off, eyes meeting Stiles’. She takes him in - his skin flushed and eyes wet, body holding onto a stillness that doesn’t fit his frame - and she sinks into the water across from him. 

She settles in to the smooth heat of the water, and they look at each other from opposite ends of the tub. Part of her is a little surprised at the evenness of his stare, taking in the sight of her quietly. There’s a slow motion to his gaze, washing over the gentle bend of her legs against the edge of the water, the curve of her breasts to the expression she’s wearing, and the realization hits her like a soft wave - _he’s still not sure he’s not dreaming._

“Stiles?” She asks, not sure what she intends to say next. He looks back at her.

“Yeah?” His voice is painfully quiet. She presses her lips together, feeling the way the warmth of the water is spreading into the pale ache of her muscles while she searches for the right words. The quiet soak of the water is relaxing, or would be in neutral circumstances, and Lydia finds herself thinking a little sourly, _wasn’t this what I wanted?_ It’s then that it clicks in her mind that she can’t find the right thing to say because there isn’t anything else needed.

Turning her body in a slow sway through the water, she crosses the distance between them as the water laps against the sides of the tub. It crests as Stiles yields to her body, parting his legs to the side as she moves between them, turning to face the other wall and gently leaning her body into the shape of him. A long breath of hesitation drags out, and then Stiles is fitting his arms around her, her back pressed to his chest. 

From this new angle Lydia can feel the satin sear of bare skin against hers through the water. And through that, the too-fast hammering of Stiles’ heartbeat, the faint tremor in his limbs. Too fast, like his tendons are trying to run from his body, and Lydia tips her head back to rest on his shoulder. The motion eases him back too until she can feel his back resting against the tiled wall, the water soaking into the coil of her hair.

Gradually, excruciatingly, she can feel the tension slowly ebb from his body, and they both succumb to the claim of the water. 

The bubbles shine with an pearlescent gleam, all pink and gold behind the shade of the parted shower curtain. Lydia can hear them, a soft rustle as they float and burst atop the water, almost crackling as Stiles’ hand moves against the bottom of her ribcage, tracing his fingertips across her skin in a muted motion. 

Time is held at a standstill, the early hours past midnight obeying their own will, and Lydia is aware of a weight returning to her eyelids, encouraged by the now steady rhythm of Stiles’ heartbeat against her body. She’s not aware of how much time is passing, not aware of anything that isn’t the expanse of water around their bodies, the gentle presence of Stiles’ breathing by her scalp. 

Eventually something breaks the spell they’re under, and draws Lydia back. A sound chimes from outside the room and down the hall - the cycle ending on the washer - and Lydia links her fingers through Stiles’ when he jumps slightly. 

“We should get out,” she says, trying to remember when she’s wanted anything less. She can’t, and yawns around the end of her words. Stiles moves behind her, lifting his hands up she slowly stands to aid her balance, and Lydia steps out of the bathtub, gingerly favouring her ankle. It’s hardly swollen from the long soak, but Stiles still follows her exit with his body acting as a crutch. 

Lydia hands him a towel while draping one around herself. He wraps it around his body modestly and Lydia notes how deeply she feels the loss of his skin against hers. 

She leaves him to dry off, not caring about the trail she’s dripping down the hall to the laundry room. She tosses the bundle of sheets and clothes into the dryer and swats the machine on, towelling out the ends of her hair as she moves back down the hall. The bathroom light is off now, residual heat from the steam breathing out towards her as she passes the door, pointed back towards her room.

The lamp on her bedside dresser is still on, and the flicker of candlelight is casting amber shadows across Stiles’ face as he watches her come through the door. There’s another flicker of something more like relief as she shuts the door behind her.

“Hi,” Lydia says again, observing the way something awkward and tense is trying to infiltrate the air between them. She straightens her posture, banishes it.

“Hey,” Stiles recites back. The sight of him wearing nothing but a towel in her bedroom is new and out of place, but there’s a nervous twitch to his fingers that’s entirely familiar. 

“Go to bed,” Lydia says next, watching as something in Stiles seems to relax at the bossy nature of her tone. She feels her face softening into a tired smile, and relief breaks out through her own body as Stiles returns it. 

It takes a brief moment of encouragement to get Stiles to drop the towel to the floor and step naked into her bed. Then Lydia is slipping into the fresh sheets beside him, snaking a hand between their bodies to tangle their fingers together. There’s hardly any hesitation before he’s wrapping her in with his free arm, and when she feels the uptick in his pulse at their contact, she doesn’t mention it. The fatigue is back full force, deep into her bones. Beside her in the dancing amber light, she can feel the same heavy weight present in Stiles’ body. The smell of honey and vanilla is eclipsing the brittle dig of fear within the room, and Lydia adjusts comfortably beneath the covers.

“Okay?” She asks softly.

“Yeah,” Stiles mumbles back, and she can feel the vibration of his voice into her hairline. “This still feels like a dream, though.” There’s a bridge of silence as Lydia feels the return of an even rhythm to his breathing before Stiles is adding, “don’t want to wake up from this.” 

“That’s a little morbid,” she says, nosing her answer into his collarbone, feeling his pulse echo into her skin. 

“I just wet myself in your bed, I’m allowed to be a little morbid,” Stiles says back, voice weighted down by the hour, and Lydia smiles into the embrace. There’s an element to his tone despite the heavy ache from being tired - a sarcastic edge carefully dressing embarrassment. It too is familiar in a way that settles the final edge in Lydia’s mind, and she’s humming an amendment into his skin.

“Promise you’ll be here when I wake up?” Stiles murmurs next, and Lydia stills, feeling the way sleep is pacing around them both, languid and impatient. Then she’s shifting against him, tilting her head up slightly and leaning in to kiss him. 

“Promise,” she whispers against his mouth, and it’s then that his body finally relaxes against her, and the gentle flicker of candlelight eases them both back out of consciousness.


End file.
